Man, the Masochist
When the
aliens arrive,
they will
look upon our works
baffled,
confounded,
aghast.
They may
come in peace,
they may
come to conquer,
they may
come just looking
for
someone to
probe,
but their
findings won’t
make
sense.
The probes
will be the same
as always:
six inches
in to check for cancer
and
undigested red-meat.
The probes
that occur
in every
sector of the galaxy
yield the
same results.
But not on
Earth.
They won’t
know what to make of
our
masochism.
They’ve
never conquered
a planet
or come in peace
or just
for a quick probe
and found
such self-hatred.
“To hunt
yourselves to oblivion
is not
logical,”
they will
mutter quietly
to each
other
Their
saucers won’t run
on
internal combustion.
No fission
or fusion
or
dilithium crystals.
No steam
with the exhaust
of a
thousand forests,
the
exhaust of a thousand
tons of
mountain ash.
Only
masochism can explain
our
plight.
We look at
the universe and say,
“Harder,
Master,”
as the
universe unleashes
another
lash with its
cat-o-nine
tails,
another
lash from the whip
of climate
change.
“Thank
you, sir,
may I have
another,”
we respond
when
another young man
is killed
by the cops.
When
another young army
is
ploughed under in
the sands
of Kuwait.,
and the
Bulldozer Assault
becomes
standard strategy
in
military academies
around the
globe.
When
another young generation
is fed,
screaming and alone,
to the ovens
of our discontent.
“Yes,
yes,” we scream
as we
raise our crosses, our stars,
our moons
to vacant eyes
and deaf
ears.
They will
look upon our works
baffled,
confounded,
aghast.
Doin’ That Dynamite Bridge Rag
On the other side of
destiny rides
Poncho Villa.
He waits with
crossed bandoliers
loaded for bear
and loaded for
Juarez.
We walk softly
as the codger with
tobacco juice beard
laughs manically at the
clouds.
He laughs as we turn tail
and hit the road;
he laughs when
Urique Arroyo
runs death dry,
but he never laughs
when we return.
“Whatever happened to
The Fresno Kid?
Where is Crazy Sam
when we need him?
Where has he gone?”
we ask the stars.
Longing for a token
for the last train heading
north,
longing for a final kiss goodnight,
we sleep beneath
the Milky Way
and count our fading dreams.
We tip our hats to
Johnny Nevada
and forget our tongues
in howling coyote
wilderness.
The thunder and lightning
country burns
on horizons of plateau gold
and yucca stalks
bloom in
oar-less seas.
Chug, chug, chug
goes the black steam
engine.
Chug, chug, chug
rides the chestnut mare.
The splinters of
the rail bridge
float down that old
Rio Grande
as oily moustache smiles
tip back dusty tequila.
The bluegill and
the crappie come
tickle our toes.
The scent of the rawhide
teases the nose.
Drawing one eyed Jacks,
we drag the coffin towards
Palm Desert
for another anonymous
burial.
At noon we’ll face
Gary Cooper
in a showdown to end all
showdowns.
Who was that masked man
who rode from town
w/ the payroll wagon
and the ten-dollar whore?
Who led the banditos
as they rode eight abreast
over the hills of
Silverton?
Dancing to the dynamite
on the Fourth of July
Dancing to the
Roman Candles
Dancing to the Nitro
as it splinters the sky
Dancing to the
citizens band handles
Dancing to the clouds
of ash and smoke
Dancing to the
bottle rockets
Dancing to the flash
of the scarlet oak
Dancing to the
sparking socket.
Love Song for Kenosha Dead
The irony
is
that we
already are
ragged
claws.
We scuttle
with
yawps and
cries,
but the
silent seas sleep.
The
solitary lobster leaps
for the
Kenosha dead.
The
erymidae weep
for the
long barrel
and the
dead-eye.
The king
crab reigns o’er
all he
surveys,
but with
eyes only inches
off the
silent floors,
he surveys
little,
and his
miniature kingdom
is washed
and forgotten.
We yawp
and cry for
Kenosha
dead,
but the
ragged claw
has no
lung,
no vocal
cord.
Our silent
thunder settles
into
silent dread
as our silent oceans
burn.
At a High School Football Game
In the
back-seat
of my
father’s car,
the
windows were
steamed
up.
She wrote
missives
in the
condensation,
detailing
our every move.
As the
football game
roared in
the distance,
I knew the
score.
The next
time
the
windows fogged up,
her
message would
be read
loud and clear.
The next
time
the
windows fogged up,
the truth
would be
made
plain.
We didn’t
love each other,
we barely
liked each other,
but our
back-seat rendezvous
was
repeated every
few months.
We studied
the playbook,
we learned
the ropes,
we came to
understand
our
teenage bodies
as
condensation
collected
again
and again.
Executive Toe-Jam
As a
child,
I always
kept a mason jar
next to my
bed.
At night,
while
getting ready
to sleep,
I would
slowly remove
my
clothing,
one
article at a time.
I would
take off my shirt
and pants
and don my
PJs
before I
took off my socks.
I always
slept barefoot
because I
loved the cold sheets
on my warm
feet.
Before getting
into bed though,
I cleaned
the crevasses
between my
toes.
I
collected the toe-jam
in the
mason jar.
Week after
week,
year after
year,
my
collection of toe-jam grew.
By high
school,
I had
shelves of those jars,
all full
to the brim.
I went to
college
and
carefully
packed
them in boxes.
They were
stacked
in the
corner
of my dorm
room.
My
roommates never knew
what those
jars held.
Girlfriends
asked,
but I
quickly learned
that
explaining my collection
meant
losing the girls.
In my late
twenties,
I emptied
all the jars
and the
toe-jam piled up
on the
floor.
Nearly six
feet high, it was.
At first
it seemed to move
on its
own.
I swear it
was self-aware.
Six feet
of living toe-jam.
Of course,
it struck
out on its own.
The
toe-jam, too,
went to
college.
It too had
roommates
and
girlfriends.
It majored
in law
with a
minor in political science.
Upon
graduation
from a
reputable East Coast school,
the
six-foot tall
toe-jam
got a job
in Washington DC.
Moving up
the ladder,
it made a
name for itself.
Soon, it
ran for president:
lost.
Four years
later, however,
the six
feet of toe-jam
won both
the popular
and the
electoral vote.
It sounds
strange,
but don’t
be fooled.
Check your
history books;
this
certainly wasn’t the first
toe-jam
president,
and it
probably
won’t be the last.
Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart Nominee and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications like CP Quarterly, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Provenance Journal, Lavender and Lime Review, About Place, Novus Review, Fiery Scribe, and Fahmidan Journal, and most recently in. Muleskinner Journal. In his free time, he obsesses over soccer and comic books.
Twitter: @aandrefpeltier
Website: www.andrefpeltier.com
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